


Delivery Man

by ChokolatteJedi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Custody Battle, Driving, Gen, Homework, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-19
Updated: 2006-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 00:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/437242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChokolatteJedi/pseuds/ChokolatteJedi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week in the life</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delivery Man

**Author's Note:**

> My fifth creative writing class assignment. And aside from the original requirements, this one had 6 new ones and had to be around 800-1,000 words.
> 
> This story has killed me. I couldn't think of a story line that fulfilled all of those requirements and yet wasn't a sci-fi/fantasy story. Much love to Korn, NIN, and Slayer for inspiration and the lyric quotes.

“Don’t bother, Drake,” she said. “It’s over. I’m taking the girls with me to live with my parents.”

“But-”

Click.

Drake sat on his bed and tried to cry.

_  
Broken bruised forgotten sore, too fucked up to care anymore, poisoned to my rotten core, too fucked up to care anymore.  
_

“Mrs. Anderson?” Drake knocked heavily on the door. “Can you hear me, Ma’am?” He couldn’t hear the AC running in the condo, though it was a typical Texas summer day and well over forty degrees. Shrugging it off, he knocked again. “It’s Drake Lyndall, Ma’am. _Meal and Wheels_ , remember? I have your lunch.” After two more minutes of fruitless knocking, Drake sighed and walked back to his old jeep. He slid the covered lunch tray onto the silver rack in the portable heater and closed the jeep’s back door.

“Sodding Mondays,” he muttered, climbing into the driver seat. Turning up the rock station, he sped back to the Food Kitchen. Letting his green jeep idle by the door, Slayer blaring on the radio, Drake grabbed the two extra meals and walked in the front door.

“Hey Drake!” Monique, the desk girl, greeted him. Her hair was a darker brown than his and her eyes were hidden behind fake emo glasses. “Two spares today?”

“Yes. Talmer’s wife was visiting her sister in Austin, and Anderson never answered the door. Deaf old twit.” Drake ducked through the low doorway and walked down the corridor to the kitchen, nodding to one of the cooks.

“Anderson? Which one’s she?” He could hear Monique rifling through the list of clients.

“Little old German lady in Houston Heights, seventy-something? Has those pictures of her dead Yorkie everywhere. Talks about the bloody thing like it’s still alive and yapping.” Drake slid the food trays into the heater and grabbed an extra roll from the counter on his way back to the main office.

“Oh yeah? Billy said he had trouble with Anderson last night. She didn’t answer then either.”

“Billy? Is he new?”

“He’s on the Varsity Basketball team, just got his license.” Monique sighed happily.

Drake snorted. “Smashing. About Anderson, make a note of it for the dinner driver. I’m off.”

“Where’re you going? Got a hot date?”

Drake paused at the door. “No, I’m- I was married… I drive for the Pizza Hut on Cavalcade and Fulton.”

“Oh. Have fun!”

“Riiight.” Drake pushed open the door and hurried out into the sun. He got back into his jeep, slipped it into drive, and pulled out onto the highway.

_  
Quarters for the criminally insane, the sentence read for life I must remain, the path I chose has led me to my grave, to try again I'd have no other way.  
_

Drake pulled into the back lot of the Pizza Hut and parked. Reaching into the backseat, he grabbed his work shirt and pulled it on over his white _Meals_ shirt. Turning his hat around the right way, he slammed the car door and walked towards the building. He was a few minutes early, so he stopped to talk to another driver who was on break.

“Cheers, Drake.” Martin, a beefy, black, ex-marine, said, taking another puff of his fag. “Did you see the World Cup last night?”

“Of course. You owe me ten for America losing to Italy and ten for Australia trouncing Japan.”

Martin pulled out his wallet. “You bastards just got lucky in the end. And we didn’t lose to Italy; we tied with them.”

“Luck, nothing, we kicked Japan’s arse fair and square. You bet The US to win, a tie doesn’t count.” Drake slid the twenty into his pocket as Martin crushed his cigarette on the curb and stood.

“Oh hey, did you hear anything about custody of the munchkins?” Martin asked as they walked inside.

Drake sighed. “My lawyer said she doesn’t want to give me visiting rights, let alone custody.”

“Why not?”

“She’s moving to Georgia. Doesn’t want to disrupt the kids’ lives with too much travel.”

“Oh. Sorry, man.” Martin grabbed a soda from the cooler. “So how were the old folks today?”

“Fine. But with this heat they all turn on the cooler, then turn off their hearing aids on account of the noise. I had to yell for five minutes for some of them.” Drake clocked in and then sat beside the phone. “One old bird never answered at all.”

“Don’t they know you’re coming?”

“Same time, every day, and they still can’t remember to unlock, or even answer, the damn door.”

“Maybe they just don’t trust you convicts.” Martin joked.

“Keep laughing, Gomer.” Drake shook a bored fist at him. “You never know what kind of crazy things we Aussie ‘convicts’ know.”

Martin’s response was cut off by the call for a driver, and with a mocking salute, he grabbed the delivery bag and ducked out.

_  
I am the hate you try to hide and I control you, I take you where you want to go, I give you all you need to know, I drag you down I use you up, Mr. Self-destruct  
_

Drake had Tuesday morning off and spent the time unpacking the boxes that were stacked around his new apartment. He’d rented a two-bedroom, optimistically thinking he would need space for his daughters to stay.

Wednesday he had his _Meals on Wheels_ route again, with the usual hearing problems. We he got to the end of his run, he realized that Anderson wasn’t on his list. Back at the Kitchen, he asked Monique.

“Anderson? Oh yeah, she was dead.”

“What?” Drake choked on his Pepsi.

“Yeah. She wouldn’t answer the door, ever, so we called the cops. They broke into her house and found her dead in her sleep.” Monique looked back at her fashion magazine.

“I see.”

“Billy said she even had one of those pictures of her dog in her hand.”

“Flick.”

“Huh?”

“The dog’s name was Flick.” Drake walked out to his car and turned up the radio.

That night, Drake sat on his bed and cried.

_  
Fuck you too! Your scream's a whisper. Hang on you, Twisted Transistor. Hey you, hey you, finally you get it, the world ain't fair, eat you if you let it  
_


End file.
